


Yours sincerely, Wasting Away

by Amberdreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Growing Old Together, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Old Age, Permanent Injury, Unbeta'd, geriatric sex (not explicit), now with beautiful art by siennavie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curtain fic.  Old age was something Dean Winchester had never thought to experience, yet here they both are, still in the Bunker and still alive.  They’ve even gone beyond <i>will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty four</i>… It’s a good job Dean still remembers about happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours sincerely, Wasting Away

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/gp/housefullofbooks/6828E9)

Dean’s feeling angry again.  Sam would no doubt call it Dean being grumpy, but Dean knows this is more serious than that.  Dean’s been nursing a simmering pot of rage ever since Sam took that header down the cast iron stairs just before Christmas.

It’s not like Dean to hold onto his anger like this, it’s more a Sam-like characteristic, but then Sam isn’t really himself any more, is he?  So Dean has to be Sam as well as himself, these days.

One concussion too many, the doctors at the hospital had said, while Dean had been groping around for some convincing back story as to why his little brother had evidently suffered so many blows to the head.  He’d blamed it on an early (sadly failed) career in college football in the end, and the hospital staff had nodded knowingly, satisfied.

Dean had taken Sam home to the Bat Cave, and now Sam is no longer permitted to enter the Bunker by the front door.  Instead, he has to take the basement entrance, through the garage where there are no steps.   That’s when Dean allows him out at all.

So every now and then, Dean’s rage-pot gets stirred.  Like now, when Sam’s insisting on accompanying Dean into town for supplies.

Fuck their lives.  When did the mere act of travelling from A to B become as genuinely hazardous as solo hunting a frigging nest of vamps?  It’s a rhetorical question, of course.  Dean knows exactly when this shocking turn of events happened.  When old age caught up with them both, that’s when.

The thing is, stupid though it is, Dean never saw it coming.  He’d always assumed they’d both be dead before they had to contend with failing eyesight, arthritic hips and fingers, or the sudden unwelcome ability to fall over anything and everything as their joints locked up and balance fled the building.  And of course, they _had_ both died.  Several times.  So he had been kind of right.

“Dean, I’m coming with you, I don’t care what you say,” Sam’s saying, looming over Dean as only Sam can. Dean tries not to sigh, or to take a step back. These days a looming Sam is just one more hazard to contend with, due to his tendency to overbalance.  A lot.  That fall didn’t just split Sam’s head open more effectively than any monster had ever done, but the aftermath has left him very unsteady on his feet.

“You can’t keep me locked up in here like some sort of medieval princess just because I have a little brain damage.  I refuse to be wrapped up in what-do-you-call-it.”

Another side effect of the fall – Sam sometimes loses words.

Dean pushes his glasses up his nose, attempting a non-defensive stance and wishing he didn’t need to wear the damn things all the time.  Sam, on the other hand, peers over his reading glasses in order to make sure Dean feels the full force of his giant little brother’s pissy gaze.  Even the fact that Sam wears said reading glasses on one of those old lady strings round his neck so he can’t lose them doesn’t stop Dean squirming under the force of _that look_.  One of the few things that hasn’t dulled over the years is Sam’s ability to make Dean feel guilty even when he’s done nothing wrong. Of course, most of the time Dean probably has done some thing to wind Sam up, it’s what big brothers are for, right?  Even when you are pushing eighty, and little brother is seventy-six next year.  Some things should never change, in Dean’s opinion.

“Okay, okay, you’re coming with.  But I’m driving.”  Dean ignores Sam’s grimace and leads the way, slowly, to the garage and the Impala.  The classic car is still running, thanks to Dean’s tender loving care, and in better condition than either of the Winchesters, if they’re honest.  Dean’s pride and joy can still purr like the tigress she’s always been, ever since she’d rolled off that production line in Detroit.

Three hours later, the Winchesters return to the Bunker, laden with provisions.  Sam’s smiling because Dean had given in (again) and they had both sat in Sam’s favourite organic deli-cum-bakery for some fucking awful froufrou coffee abomination, only made bearable by a slice of the best blueberry pie Dean had ever tasted.  Not that he was admitting that to Sam, of course. Though from the knowing looks Sam was giving him, Dean guessed his semi-orgasmic groaning when the first forkful unloaded its flavour burst on his tongue might have given it away. But he was not going to add to Sam’s self satisfaction by actually putting it into words.

Why break the habit of several lifetimes, after all?

Things are different between them now after so much time, but still the same.  Gentler, maybe.  Less intense but just as deep.

Sam still insists on keeping his white hair shoulder length, even though it’s a bastard to wash it, and Dean only allows it because it means he gets to shower with Sam to help with the shampooing.  Sadly, Dean’s desire to share hot water like this stems eighty per cent from his fear that Sam will slip without his big brother to lean on, and only twenty per cent from desire to use the soap on other parts of Sam’s anatomy.  Which really sucks.  Even at his age, Dean still has, you know.  Urges.

For instance, Dean loves to trace the white wiry hairs on Sam’s chest, loves seeing if he can still make Sam gasp when he reaches down to the nest of hair around Sam’s still impressive dick, and trails his fingers round Sam’s balls.  Though even the thought of attempting to kneel down and suck Sam off now makes his knees crack in sympathy and his back ache with the memory of the last time they’d tried shower sex. Dean had ended up stuck on his knees for an embarrassingly long time before Sam had the bright idea of bringing a stool from the kitchen into the shower for Dean to haul himself onto, as Sam was no longer strong enough to lift Dean up by himself.  So.  No more kneeing down for _any_ reason, and all blowjobs to be undertaken while lying down.

Dean sometimes thought he should write a Karma Sutra for geriatrics.  He’s sure it would be a best seller.

They share Dean’s room now – unofficially.  Have done for, oh, probably the last forty years, on and off.  Dean soon got fed up of Sam’s seeming inability to personalise his quarters, and at the same time, could never really settle at night without the comforting sound of Sam’s breathing soothing him to sleep.  So gradually the sharing of Dean’s big bed with its awesome memory foam turned into a new habit of cohabitation, and Dean was secretly pleased when he found Sam’s reference books taking up his desk-space, or Sam’s socks mingling with his own.

 

The trip into town has taken its toll, and Sam is sitting at the mahogany table, reading glasses slid down so far it’s only the tip-tilt of Sam’s nose that is stopping them dropping off along with their owner.  Dean rolls his eyes a bit.  Trust Sam to think dipping into some ancient tome the size of a house brick would be a bit of light reading.  The kid had exhausted himself in his efforts to help Dean stack cans of soup in their storeroom.  Dean rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s Chaucer, Dean,” Sam mumbles as he lets Dean help him up.

“Stop reading my mind, dude.  Though what’s in my head is way more entertaining than that dull as ditch water stuff,” Dean says, pretending to pout.  Sam straightens and pulls away from Dean to walk under his own steam, indignation fuelling him.

“It’s a classic of English literature.” Sam says, as Dean guides him through the bedroom door, towards the bed.  Dean starts to unbutton Sam’s flannel shirt.

“And I can undress myself, I’m not an inv…in…thingy.”

Dean walks Sam backwards until he’s forced to sit down on the edge of the bed, and ignores Sam’s flapping hands trying to push him away.

“I know, Sammy, but where’s the fun in that?”  Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively and leans in then, to kiss the frown right of his brother’s face.

 

So sometimes they are on the same page at the same time, and ancient, creaky joints aside, it’s glorious.  Because even after so many separations and arguments and betrayals and their various trips to Hell and Heaven and everywhere in between, Dean’s never grown out of Sam. Never will.

 

[](https://www.flickr.com/gp/housefullofbooks/J6chsf)

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the fabulous art post by siennavie and leave her some love. HERE https://siennavie.livejournal.com/99303.html


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